


The Storyteller

by we_could_be_heroes



Category: The Monstrumologist Series - Rick Yancey
Genre: Gen, Humor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-02
Updated: 2014-06-02
Packaged: 2018-02-03 03:36:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,378
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1729691
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/we_could_be_heroes/pseuds/we_could_be_heroes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What it may have been like if Will Henry started writing his folios while still with the monstrumologist.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Storyteller

As we ventured on expeditions all around the world, visiting an assortment of curious and dangerous places, I began thinking about writing down our adventures. I thought the monstrumologist would see the logic in the idea as it was the one certain way of preserving his memory for posterity, but whenever I broached the subject with him, he was at best skeptical. I eventually stopped asking altogether and, given my preoccupation with a multitude of other duties, almost entirely forgot about the matter. Imagine my surprise then, when on the evening of my birthday, the monstrumologist presented me with three slim notebooks and a rare smile:

"I suppose there is no harm in you trying your hand at prose, Will Henry. I am well aware of your aptitude at finding ways to waste time - so you might as well do something productive."

I was ecstatic. If he could be bothered at all, the monstrumologist’s gifts were usually a study in pragmatism – he would purchase a set of microscope slides for his laboratory and inform me not to expect anything else for Christmas. Having finally received something I actually wanted, I set to writing the very night.

It proved astonishingly easy. Recounting events that actually happened comes, after all, much more naturally than constructing fictional tales. The words flowed from my pen and I only forced myself to stop when my hand cramped. I faithfully returned to my ink and paper friend every night and kept filling page after page. But then, at last, I saw the downside of the exercise. If there was something the monstrumologist prized above all, it was his reputation. Therefore, not only would he demand to see the manuscript, he was also certain to subject it to his censorship. I recalled the long hours we spent agonizing over his  scientific papers and shuddered at the thought of him mercilessly dissecting my own text.

To be sure, not a day had passed before he asked me, as if in afterthought, whether I had had a chance to do any writing. Lying was not an option.

“Well, let me see.” He followed me into my little room and watched me reach under the bed for the notebook.  _I could still smash it into the lamp and set it on fire,_ I thought.  _I could shred the paper into pieces. With my mouth. There is still time._ But I didn’t. Instead, I obediently handed him the product of my memory and imagination and sat down on the bed, resigned to meet my fate.

“That’s quite a bit you’ve written there. Hmm.” He leafed through the notebook and then stopped at one page. He stared at it for some time. “Well-” I braced myself - “it could be worse.” I breathed out in relief. “However-” I tensed again - “there is much to improve.”

He gestured for me to make room for him on the bed. The situation bore all the promise of turning into a lengthy and baffling process, as did most of my conversations with the monstrumologist.

“First of all – your style. It is a bit dry, don’t you think? Nothing enlivens a scene like vivid, colorful prose.” Glancing at my carefully blank expression, he added: “Now would be the time to start taking notes, Will Henry.”

He drummed his fingers on the notebook as I got a pen and paper ready and then continued: “Let’s look closely at this part here: ‘The monstrumologist came running after me, his face contorted with fear.’ This - is an example of a passage that would benefit from more descriptive words. The key here is to create an image of the scene in the reader’s mind and make it as concrete as possible, remember that.”

Few men whose readership amounted to one and not entirely voluntary individual could speak with the gravitas of a bestselling author – but the monstrumologist was one of those few: “Let’s take this apart - ‘the monstrumologist’. What adjective could we use before that? Well? I’m not doing your work for you, Will Henry.”

I racked my brain for the word he most likely wanted to hear. “Um, brave?”

He shook his head.

“Intrepid? Fearless?”

“Really, Will Henry? ‘The fearless monstrumologist with face contorted with fear?’ Does that sound like something you would like to see on a page? A  _printed_  page? Although I suppose it could be constructed as an oxymoron … But I doubt anyone would understand that. If writing poetry taught me anything, it was to always underestimate my readers.” He sighed. “All right. Let’s stick with ‘brave’ for now. Now, what do we have next … ‘came running.’ Came running how? How do I run, Will?”

"Um – fast?”

“Fast …” he rolled the word around as if he was tasting an unsavory meal. “But running already  _is_ fast by itself, isn’t it? Fastness is an intrinsic aspect of running.”

“Oh, right, I suppose.” I was entering the familiar phase of bafflement.

“Try harder, Will Henry. What else can we use?”

“Came running, panting?”

“What am I, a dog?”

“No, sir.”

“It  _is_  a difficult one,” he admitted. “Writing can be very hard work. We could spend  _hours_  just on one sentence.” I swallowed uneasily. “But - we won’t. Let’s skip ‘brave’ for now and focus on ‘face.’ How would we describe my face? See, Will Henry, this should be easy - I’m sitting right here. How does my face look?”

I looked at him. His face looked impatient.

“You should take an advantage of this situation, Will. Few writers have the privilege of meeting their characters. Well?” He drummed his fingers again. “And even fewer can ask them for writing advice.”

_I never asked_ , I thought, scanning his lean countenance for an answer that would appease his irritation.

“Um, lean?”

“What was that? Ah, lean? Yes, I suppose that could work.” He inadvertently touched his stubbly cheek. “Is that all?”

“Um, I don’t know.”

“ _You_   _don’t know_? Really, it seems to me like you’re not trying at all, Will Henry. Which is disappointing considering that you’re the one who came up with this pointless exercise to begin with. Snap to, now. Give me another adjective.”

I looked at his symmetrical features and his dark, fervent eyes, prominent in the pale face.

“I don’t have all day. Look at my face. What is its  _quality_?”

I felt my own face burn. “Um, I suppose-”

“And for God’s sake, stop saying ‘um.’ ”

“Handsome?” I had hit the gold vein and his demeanor changed instantly.

“Why, thank you, Will.” He waved his hand dismissively “Well, no harm in adding that too. Write it down. Yes. Good.”

An unhealthy doze of attributes, alliterations and metaphors later, we had transformed my original tidy sentence into the following monster of embellishment: ‘The brave monstrumologist came running after me, his lean handsome face contorted with frantic fear which paralyzed him like frost does water, but only internally (as outwardly, he could still run).’

The monstrumologist ran a hand through his thick hair in frustration. “You really need to work on the ending there, Will. Writing is such an excruciating and time-consuming process…That is the reason why I gave up my career as a poet, you know.”

_Really?_ That  _is the reason?_  I thought darkly while I nodded, glad beyond measure our writing session was finally over.

To be fair, I did learn a valuable lesson that day: that I must never, under any circumstances, show a single blot of ink to the monstrumologist again. Still, having once dabbled in creativity, it was hard to let it go. So I allowed myself to indulge in it once in a while, but only under topmost secrecy.

Needless to say, there were some accidents. Such as the time when a piece of a singularly introspective text got mixed with the monstrumologist’s correspondence I was in charge of (“ ‘Time is a line but we are circles, our mind is a square but our conscience a triangle,’ ” the monstrumologist read out loud to my horror. “What is this rubbish? I thought you were supposed to be copying my letter to the Secretary!”).

But I soon learned to keep my work and my passion separate, and thus managed to produce a fair amount of words even while still under the monstrumologist’s supervision.


End file.
